


that my tongue is tied off

by mosaicofhearts



Series: Marigold Avenue SMAU [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baker Eddie, Baking, Baking As Therapy, Friends to Lovers, Hugs, M/M, Marigold Avenue AU, Mutual Pining, trauma talk!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: Richie is leaning against the door frame, hip cocked exaggeratedly, hand pressed to the side of his head. Trying (and not necessarily failing) to look like some sordid late night visitor. “You requested my company, sir?”Eddie looks at him.“Did I?” He tilts his head to the side questioningly. “Must have been a mistake, sorry.” And with that, he makes to close the door in Richie’s face.He manages to get halfway when he hears the offended squawk emitting from the other side of the wood, treacherous laughter already building in his own chest. Richie’s hand shoots out to catch the edge of the door before it can fully close, his face pushing into the gap, a third obscured from view.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Marigold Avenue SMAU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869814
Comments: 5
Kudos: 93





	that my tongue is tied off

**Author's Note:**

> hey! this is a companion fic for my smau marigold avenue (which you can find here [@marigoldaveau](https://twitter.com/marigoldaveau)). 
> 
> this takes place from update 428, and is covered in the following updates to 431.
> 
> could be read as a standalone! all you really need to know is that eddie owns a bakery and richie works for mike's florists, next door!
> 
> title is from the sound of settling by death cab for cutie, the first song on the official playlist curated by christina!
> 
> content warnings for discussions about parental abuse (canon-typical sonia kaspbrak behavior in terms of placebos and allergies!)

Outside, the sun is setting on the horizon, a backdrop of diminished oranges and powder pink, already flecked with stars valiantly attempting to cast light upon a darkening atmosphere. The sound of traffic is constant, now nothing more than a backing track to days and nights in the city of Chicago; the occasional squeal of tires against tarmac, the distant beeping of a car horn, the hum of street lights undercutting it all.

On a night like this - mild and still -, Eddie might be tempted to sit out on his balcony, hands wrapped firmly around a mug of coffee or a glass of wine (dependent upon how the day has gone), looking out over the city he's grown to call home. Listening to the muted conversations of passers by, twenty storeys down and oblivious to his accidental eavesdropping. Finding comfort in being present but outside of it all.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he is unsettled, stormy seas in the high of winter, a plan of action to subdue that feeling within him already being set in motion.

By the time the knock at the door sounds, Eddie’s already pulled out various dishes and ingredients from the cupboards, too tightly wound to sit still waiting. He hates waiting, impatience wrung out through his bones, even worse when he feels like this - on edge, a current of electricity buzzing through his veins with the potential of sparking him up from the inside. Burning him out.

The knock startles him out of it, momentarily. His grip on the glass mixing bowl in his hand weakens, the smooth cold of it slipping further out of his grasp until he manages to pull it back, caught just barely by the tips of his fingers. His heart beats too fast, whether at the vision of smashed glass across the floor, or because of the visitor at the door, he doesn't know.

Both, probably.

Stupid, he thinks, shaking his head at himself; allowing a small, sardonic smile to quirk his lips.

In the reflective surface of the chrome refrigerator, he catches sight of himself, surprised to see his appearance faring better than he might have imagined. He still looks how he feels, like a coil waiting to spring, skin taut across his features, jaw tight and jutting at an angle. Tension evident. But his eyes, less baleful than he might have expected, his smile, actually able to be worn.

It takes a lot of effort to force himself to relax, interrupted by a second knock, more impatient than the first.

“Jesus, I’m coming!” He half yells, irritability giving way to a warmer sensation that fills his stomach.

Relief, maybe. Gratitude that Richie is here at all.

Scrubbing a hand over his face to hide a conflicted groan, Eddie makes his way to the door of the apartment quickly. He pulls it open with too much vigor, feeling briefly like he might be able to rip it from its hinges. Adrenaline speaking, or maybe just eagerness.

Richie is leaning against the door frame, hip cocked exaggeratedly, hand pressed to the side of his head. Trying (and not necessarily failing) to look like some sordid late night visitor. “You requested my company, sir?”

Eddie looks at him.

“Did I?” He tilts his head to the side questioningly. “Must have been a mistake, sorry.” And with that, he makes to close the door in Richie’s face.

He manages to get halfway when he hears the offended squawk emitting from the other side of the wood, treacherous laughter already building in his own chest. Richie’s hand shoots out to catch the edge of the door before it can fully close, his face pushing into the gap, a third obscured from view.

“Eds,” he whines. “You promised dessert!”

It makes Eddie roll his eyes, an action that serves to make him appear far more put out than he actually is, given that he invited Richie here in the first place. Given that having him at his apartment feels both right and terrifying.

"Come in then," he says, tone one of relenting.

He steps aside, opening the door fully. "But I'm kicking you out if you don't behave."

Richie's face breaks into a broad smile, cheeks bunching and skin around his eyes creasing like fine paper, so genuine that Eddie feels dizzily blindsided for a split second. He can only blink dumbly, forcing himself into action by closing the door behind them. A moment of reprieve where he can look at the blank surface and not at Richie.

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Richie promises. Playing along as though Eddie wasn't the one to ask him here, out of the blue, clearly in need of some company - of a friend.

He's grateful for this; the way Richie doesn't question him, slipping into everything that Eddie throws at him without requiring much of an explanation. Friendship with Richie Tozier is surprisingly easy he's finding, in a way that Eddie never really thought friendship could be. Not outside of Bev and Bill, anyway.

As he pulls off his coat and hangs it on the hooks next to the door, Richie asks, "What are we baking?"

He looks impossibly at home already. Relaxed as his curious gaze takes in their surroundings. Something about having Richie here in his home makes Eddie feels nervously thrilled, his fingers clenching where he shoves them behind his back, out of sight. He tries to follow Richie's eyes around his apartment, tries to imagine what Richie is seeing from this outsider point of view.

There aren't many people who have ever been allowed into Eddie's home. Mostly, he doesn't _know_ that many people, always content with his impossibly close-knit trio of friends, never wanting to expand upon that. Never quite having the _courage_ to expand upon that.

With Bev and Bill, the stakes seemed less high. They knew him well enough by the time they had been invited to his apartment to know what to expect, but he isn't sure whether Richie is at that stage yet. 

Instinctively, Eddie realises that he wants Richie to approve of this - his home, this space where he spends the majority of his time outside of the bakery.

Behind his back, his fingers tangle together, tightly enough that he is sure the skin will be blanched white now. He wonders what Richie thinks of the painting he has hung in the entrance hall, a cacophony of colours splashed across a blank canvas. Not something that a stranger would expect of him, maybe, but he's always related to it in some way. Still waiting for the same colours to be painted across the surface of his skin, in a metaphorical sense. Vivid and vibrant and full of life.

The older he gets, the closer he gets to becoming more like the painting. He's not sure he'll ever reach it, but at leas the bland grayness of his childhood is being disguised with the help of good friends and new ventures.

The apartment is clean and organised but _home_. Parts of himself scattered around everywhere, from the books that line his shelves to the evidence of baking paraphernalia all over the kitchen. The kitchen is the best place, the reason he chose this apartment over every other he saw during the long months he had been searching - expansive, modern, plenty of room in which to work.

"Eds?" Richie prompts.

He realises he hasn't produced an answer to the almost forgotten question posed, cheeks suffused with bright colour at the amused turn of Richie's lips.

"Cookies." Eddie coughs, scratching at his head. "I thought we could make cookies."

Easy. Simple. But requiring use of the hands. Using his hands is important, when he feels as wired as he does. He doesn't know what they'll do if he lets him wander of their own accord.

"Cookies," Richie repeats with a nod. "I think I can manage cookies.

"I have more faith in you managing cookies than a souffle."

"Don't see why. I'm practically a baking genius at this stage."

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Definitely," those broad shoulders of his lift into a shrug, drawing Eddie's attention effortlessly. "I have the best teacher."

For someone who spends a lot of his time joking about his apparent lack of success with relationships on stage, Eddie is learning that Richie is instinctively charming. It's _annoying_. It sends an energy less agitated but just as restless (just as hazardous) as that which came before it, moving through his bloodstream.

Turning to hide the rush of blood to his face, he lies, "flattery will get you nowhere."

A short few steps to the kitchen. The benefits of apartment living is that everything is close and compact, the way that he likes it.

"I, uh, started to prep a little before you got here..." he offers unnecessarily, waving his hand towards the various instruments and food stuff that has already been placed on the counter top.

"I can see that." Richie grins.

He wastes no time in moving forward and sliding onto one of the bar stools, still taking up so much room in this place even when he's seated. Eddie finds he doesn't mind; that it's strangely pleasant, to see his kitchen filled up so well when usually it just houses him.

Eddie pushes forward, rolling his sleeves up and rifling through his drawers for a spare apron. It looks embarrassingly new when he pulls it out - too neatly folded and clean, like it hasn't been worn before. Chances are, it hasn't. He can't remember the last time he had someone here to bake with.

"Wash your hands," he orders, shoving the apron unceremoniously at Richie. "Then we can start."

The "yes sir" that falls from Richie's lips is too light to be unintentional; like he knows the reaction it pulls from Eddie.

He couldn't possibly.

Resigning himself to a night spent with rosy flags in his cheeks, Eddie surreptitiously takes a few deep breaths, squeezing his fingers together. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He's had a lot of practice with this today, though for entirely contrasting reasons.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie get up, the sleeves of his own shirt tucked up to his elbows in a mirror of Eddie's. His arms, darker than the rest of him, and speckled with fine hairs. Leading down to hands that could dwarf Eddie's, he thinks, chasing the thought away as quickly as it comes, tearing his gaze from protruding knuckles and long fingers.

"All done," Richie waves those hands in Eddie's face, almost an unknown taunt. "Where do you need me?"

 _Just here_. The thought springs to Eddie's mind unbidden, and he swallows, gesticulating towards the island in the centre of the kitchen.

"Uh, there is fine. You can measure out the flour and baking soda and mix those together."

Richie goes easily, all six foot something of him, like it's a pleasure to listen to Eddie, rather than a chore.

With the different sugars closest to him, Eddie makes a start on that, hands trembling more than he would like but at least quickly masked by the use of them.

They fall into a comfortable silence for a while, broken by the odd comment and jab between the two - Richie somehow ending up with more flour down his apron than in the bowl at first, Eddie unconsciously licking sugar from his lips.

Richie is distracted by his phone at one stage early on, texting with quick digits across the screen, not caring that he's smudging it with a mixture of sticky flour and butter. Eddie wants to reach across and clean it. He also wants to reach across and take it, inexplicably, an instinct he doesn't understand, something that shocks him. A sharp stab of annoyance that Richie's attention is on his phone and not - not the _baking_.

Just like that, it fades away when Richie waggles his brows at him, pocketing the phone.

Again, he is struck by the ease of which they have fallen into a friendship that Eddie could never have predicted.

“Look at you, putting me to work as soon as I get here,” Richie says, tutting in faux outrage. 

Eddie’s expression is unimpressed. “You’re the one who wanted to learn how to bake.”

“You should sweet talk me first.”

“Richie, darling, _please_ would you mix my dough?”

Richie snorts, eyes glinting. “That’s filthy, Eddie. Who knew you had such a dirty mouth?”

He should be used to this, Eddie thinks, flipping Richie the bird in retaliation. But still his cheeks heat furiously.

Halfway through, when Richie is studiously mixing the dough with his hands, pink of his tongue peeking out between his lips in a universal sign of absolute concentration, Eddie focuses on his own. Stealing a few glances across the island towards Richie, a breath caught in his throat.

Explaining himself isn’t something he has to do, he knows, especially where Richie is concerned. Richie doesn’t push for answers; he takes what he’s given. But here, now, in the comfort of his kitchen, Eddie finds that he _wants_ to give. 

Nervousness has him biting his lip, brows pulling together at the centre, but he makes his decision; steeling himself to be brave.

He trains his eyes back down, swallows too loudly in the unimposing quiet, and says, "I, uh. Sometimes," he pauses, mouth dry. "- sometimes baking is a distraction, you know?"

He isn't sure why he's saying it. He knows that he's opening himself up to questions, vulnerability that he isn't used to exposing in front of anyone that isn't Bev or Bill. But a part of him wants that, tonight. It feels dangerous, to let someone else know him, but it also feels right; like something he needs to do.

The truth settles heavily inside him as it always does, but perhaps releasing it - even a small part of it - will help to ease the burden of the day.

"Sure," Richie says easily.

Eddie doesn't look up to see whether he's staring back at him. He doesn't think he is; can't feel it, the prickling of another's gaze upon his skin. With Richie, he feels it even more. Welcome the sensation more than he hates it.

Richie continues, "Cooking is like that, too, for me."

_Easy._

Eddie nods down at his dough, blades of his shoulders infinitesimally relaxing in his back, feeling less like the bone is pushing at his skin.

"Is this - this is a distraction? Tonight?" Despite the slight hiccup, Richie's tone is light.

Eddie does look up now; a jolt running through him when their eyes meet unexpectedly. He thinks that it might make him want to lie - being looked at so thoroughly and so openly. But it has the opposite effect, loosening his tongue like Richie is a pastor and Eddie is ready to confess his sins.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I need this, tonight."

There's a quiet. It isn't stifling though it still borders on uncomfortable, enough so that Eddie shifts from foot to foot. But he gets it - already somehow knowing that this is Richie not wanting to push. Taking his time, like he needs to find the right words. Something about that is incredibly endearing, to think that Richie - whom Eddie already knows speaks without thought so often - is being careful with this. With him.

People have always been careful with Eddie. Never in the right way, before.

Eventually, Richie says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

 _Does he_?

Usually, Eddie would say no. Adamantly. Without a doubt. Even now, a sick tremble of anxiety passes through him at the idea of talking about it - any of it. Wherever he chooses to start.

Because that's half the problem, isn't it? There's just so much to talk about.

"Do you want to listen?" He asks weakly, a question parsed as a joke.

The movement of Richie's head raising catches him, surprised to find Richie's face a mixture of confusion and concern. His nose is wrinkled along the bridge, eyes squinting as they blink.

"Of course I do." He says, like it's obvious. Like he knows so certainly that it's what he wants. Eddie wishes he had his conviction. "I always want to."

 _Jesus_.

Eddie has to take a moment. 

He's beaten the dough in front of him to a pulp now, not as gentle with it as he should be, his mind focused on this entirely. Painful, messy thoughts. He pictures them joined by a red string inside his head, all connected but some trickier than others. Even when he's the one handling them, some are more fragile.

With a grimace, he tries to gentle his touch and save the dough.

"I went somewhere today," he starts slowly. "Got me thinking about my mother a lot."

Nothing is offered by Richie in response. Giving Eddie space, time, a chance to continue.

He isn't sure whether it's seconds or minutes before he gathers himself enough to drive forward and begin speaking once more.

"Well, you already know that she isn't winning any mother of the year awards."

Quietly, Richie responds, "I think you deserve more. But I know she's still your mom, so. Nothing is ever that easy, right?"

 _Right_. 

The words prickle at Eddie's eyes unexpectedly; that Richie can _know_ him so well, can understand the warring sides of him when it comes to the contentious topic of his mother. It shouldn't be contentious - _she_ shouldn't be. But she always has been.

"Yeah, uh - I'm going to need you to hold onto that thought," he laughs roughly, a caught sound, trapped in his rib cage and only partly loosed. He scrubs a hand across his lips. "You might find it harder to, once I've told you."

"Told me what?"

There it is; that alertness. Nothing sharp about Richie's tone, but he sits a little taller, a little straighter, hands hovering over his dough but not touching. Task already forgotten about, his focus instead on the conversation.

Although Eddie has started this, he's suddenly nervous about continuing. About having Richie's attention like this - something he usually admittedly enjoys. This is different, though. This is the sort of attention he shies from. Baring his soul. Richie will see all the scars upon it, because he's so much more perceptive than he appears at first glance.

When Richie knows how fucked up he is, will he stay? Will he still want to be Eddie's friend?

 _Silly._ He feels like a child, frightened to tell a new companion something that might scare them away. Eager to please and be liked and accepted. He never did have many friends.

His apprehension is washed away when he sneaks a covert glance at Richie once more. He’s looking back, but it’s not this which catches Eddie’s attention; but the glistening spot at the end of Richie’s nose that seems to gleam under the overhead lights. 

_Butter_ , he realises with a beat of his heart, catching the pale yellow sheen of it. He has this immediate, absurd urge to reach across and wipe it off with the pad of his finger.

He doesn’t, of course. But there is something intrinsically charming and soothing about this image of Richie Tozier sitting across from him at the breakfast bar, with butter on his nose and understanding in his stare.

"My mom," Eddie breathes out, a sigh that whistles through his teeth. "She always loved me, right? She's my mom. She loves me." He has to remind himself of this, sometimes. "But sometimes - sometimes too much. After my dad died, she was messed up over it. Started worrying that she'd lose me too."

He gets it now, after all these years. He knows why Sonia is the way she is, at least partly, but that doesn't mean that Eddie forgives her. Not for taking so much of his childhood from him.

She didn't seem to realise that she was the only one who had lost Frank.

Richie doesn't say anything, but both of them have neglected any attempt to make it look like they're still baking now. Eddie lets his eyes flicker up, catches Richie's for only a millisecond before pulling away.

Emboldened by the receptive, non-judgmental silence, he continues, "I told you that I was allergic to a lot of things, when we went for lunch?"

He pauses.

Richie nods. His brow is wrinkled in the centre, his expression painstakingly neutral. Eddie knows that it must take so much effort for Richie to school his features like this, to not let his heart's emotions guide them, and he's warmed by it - by Richie doing this for him.

"I didn't lie," he chooses his own words meticulously, plucking them from his subconscious as one would feather from a bird, eyes lidded. "But I don't - I don't know if it's the truth, either... she told me I was. Allergic to all these things - so many fucking things, honestly - and I know that at least some of those are -" Another grimace, too strong to hide. "- untrue. Like, I've tested them. I've eaten pine nuts and olives and I'm still alive, so!"

Brushing a hand across the counter top, he finally looks at Richie, forcing himself not to look away this time. Attempts a smile that feels too sharp, one short bark of humorless laughter. "They could all be lies. I just don't know yet. Haven't tested them all."

 _Too scared to test them all_.

Fear doesn't go away because it's _probably_ unnecessary. It still crawls over his skin, an invisible force, whenever he gets too close to a mango or a shrimp, and it's - he hates it. Hates how weak it makes him feel, especially knowing that the likelihood of him not being allergic to any of these things is, by now, sky high.

 _They_ could _all be lies_ , he'd said. Really, he knows 'could all be' ought to be replaced with 'are'.

He's working his way through the list. Slowly. Painstakingly. But he is. In his own time.

" _Shit_ , Eddie..."

Richie sounds - stricken, actually. A reaction stronger than Eddie had expected, somehow, and his vision focuses on Richie's face; horror melded into tenderness in some bizarre mix. His eyes are circular, one slightly larger than the other, mouth tight, a muscle visibly twitching in his neck.

He's seen Richie angry before - their first meeting, when he had mistaken Eddie for someone with unscrupulous morals and a camera. This is different. This is anger that almost gives way to maudlin, a cloying sadness that settles around them both.

"That's -" Richie shakes his head, like he can't work it out. Eddie knows the feeling. "That's _insane_. What the fuck? How many - how many things did she tell you you were allergic to?"

Eddie bites his lip. "Not sure. The list is closer to one hundred than fifty, though."

"Fucking _hell_." 

Somehow, an even more incensed tone now. So emphatic that it makes Eddie start, his own eyes blown and curious. When he looks at Richie, he sees flared nostrils and a clenched jaw, sharp as a knife’s edge.

A breath, and Richie continues, "I'm - she - I knew she was _bad_ , Eds, but this is - how can someone do that? To their own kid?"

 _To you_ , Eddie hears, of his own accord.

"Bad time to tell you about the pills, then?" He aims for a joke that falls flat.

Eddie swallows at the suddenly livid expression Richie wears, feeling remorse for being the one to place it there, indirectly. Everything he says, he thinks, is another bullet in the gun. The truth is painful, he's always known that.

" _What the fuck_?"

"Fake!" Eddie says rapidly, hands making a jerky gesture that is hopefully placating. "They were placebos. Sugar pills. Vitamins, too, but the rest were just..." he shrugs, another terse movement. "Not real. Props to make me believe in it, I guess. That I was ill." _Weak_ . _Helpless_.

He grits his teeth, grinding down.

"I just-" The tightness of Richie's voice matches that in his face. He looks pale under the light of the kitchen, and Eddie panics that he might have gone too far, unloading this upon him without warning him.

"I need a minute." Richie says. "To calm down, before I say something I regret."

Despite his words, he aims a smile at Eddie. His lips are pressed together and it looks short, pained, nothing like the genuine one that sets his eyes alight and Eddie's heart running, a train without a track and no end destination in sight.

Impulsively, Eddie misses the smile he now knows so well, wants to chase it, wants to bring the stars back to Richie's eyes and the unsteady, intoxicating beat back to his own heart. 

_Stupid_ , he thinks wryly, when he has caused this different side of Richie to be unleashed in the first place.

"Not - not about you," Richie is quick to add. Like it has just occurred to him that Eddie might think this was what he meant. "But - she's still your mom."

A repetition of an earlier statement, but one that seems to come less easily to him now. It looks like it tastes acerbic and rancid on his tongue, difficult to get out from a clenched jaw. Yet he still does, and Eddie is under no illusion that this isn't entirely for his sake.

"She's still my mom," he agrees. "But whatever you have to say, I've probably heard it before."

"You think?"

"Bev." He says pointedly, amusement flooding him. "You think she's bitten her tongue on this? In all the years I've known her? Come on Rich, you're smarter than that."

A hum in response, Richie contemplating it, like he can _see_ it in his mind's eye - Bev, fired up, eyes blazing to match her hair. 

He seems to relax, imperceptibly. "Bev's definitely called her a bitch, hasn't she?"

"Countless times."

"Good on her."

"What happened to 'she's your mom'?" Eddie rolls his eyes.

He can smile though, now that Richie is unfurling from this too tight position that he has been in, once more leaning into the Richie Eddie is familiar with. The armor set aside, the softness returning.

"Your mom can still be a crazy bitch."

" _Richie_."

"Oh, come on," Richie throws his hands up. "You can't honestly expect me to say _nothing_!"

Eddie sighs. "I _don't_."

 _But I still have to defend her_ , he doesn't say. 

When he was a little younger, he wore his defensiveness in bitter words and deep scowls. That, at least, has come to pass.

A thoughtful quiet blankets the room, both of them returning back to their dough rolling without discussing it, the odd glance between the two across the counter that separates them.

He feels lighter, he realises, and Richie seems to know it, too.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "I don't know, do you feel - better?"

"Yeah," Eddie says decisively. "I do."

"Good."

Another moment.

For the first time, Richie looks awkward and out of place when he speaks, scratching at his head and squirming in his seat, "Thanks for telling me. Happy to do this any time."

"Oh, sure," Eddie snorts, sarcastic. "You look _really happy_ to be here."

Richie throws a tea towel across the table, just barely missing hitting Eddie in the face with it. "Dude, I can’t help it that your trauma is deeply saddening to me."

"You're such an _asshole_!" Tone pitched higher, yelling despite the laugh that threatens to overcome him. "You said you wanted to listen!"

"I'm a good person, what can I say?"

This time, the tea towel hits its target, thrown by Eddie straight into Richie's astonished face.

"You deserved that!" He points his finger in a warning, almost challenging him to toss it back. “You _know_ you deserved that!”

"Yeah, yeah."

Pulling the plastic wrap from the drawer, happy with the standard of the rolled dough by now, Eddie maneuvers his into a bowl, peeling plastic over the top of it.

Suddenly, Richie says, "I mean it, though... about doing this again. Any time."

Eddie is forced to meet his gaze here, feeling it before he even sees it, the earnest authenticity that Richie doesn't even try to hide, bared like Eddie is allowed to see this. _Worthy_ of seeing this.

"If you need to talk... I'm available, man."

The moment feels tangible, though not suffocating. There's real meaning there, meaning that Eddie can't even begin to decipher right now with his head the messy tangle of thoughts that it is, with his body treacherous and aching like it _wants_ something he doesn't know and can't give it.

"I know," his voice gruff, the lump back to his throat. "Thanks, Rich."

It shouldn't be awkward - this moment that comes after something that is inherently more somber and delicate, but it is, somehow. He feels more open than he has for a while, a butterfly unfurling it's wings for the first time since emerging from the cocoon, the petals of a flower, fragile but spreading out towards the flaring light of the sun.

 _Does that make Richie the sun_? he wonders.

He looks at Richie.

The moon is high tonight, silver shining through the window behind them, turning the yellow glow of the kitchen lights softer. Here, Richie's features are gentler too, face half cast in shadows and taking on a quality that makes him seem younger. All this despite the wrinkles that tell of a life lived with laughter but not without stress.

The answer to his own question, right there before him.

"Are we done now? My fingers are, like, seizing him."

His reverie broken, Eddie tuts at the whine of Richie's complaint, rolling his eyes. He slides the bowl across the counter top towards him, nodding at it.

"Put your dough in there with mine.

"That's what she said."

 _That_ , Eddie thinks, does not even deserve a response.

Instead, he moved back towards the refrigerator, pulling another bowl out, smug when he puts it down on the side in the perfect place for Richie to notice it immediately.

He does.

"Oh no." He says.

Eddie grins.

"Oh, _no_ ," Richie says again.

"Oh, yes." Eddie grins wider.

"You are _not_ 'and here's one I made earlier'ing me!"

"I am."

"You're _evil_."

"Really?"

"Yes, _really_ ! You made me sit here for half hour rolling this dough when you already had one in the _fridge_!? What the fuck, Eddie! I can't even feel my fingers anymore!"

Eddie shrugs. "You don't learn anything if you don't get to do it yourself. Besides. This way, we've already replaced the dough in my freezer."

Richie glares at him without any heat. "You're a criminal mastermind."

"So you've said before," Cheerful, glib: such a contrast to his demeanor even ten minutes ago. "I take it as a compliment."

"Of course you do." Richie snorts at him.

They get to work quickly after that, already having wasted enough time that they didn't need to, something that Eddie only feels slightly guilty about. They mold the cookie dough into balls of roughly the same size, two baking trays filled with rows before these are placed into the oven.

The sweet, enticing smell of the cookies baking is an instant hit of serotonin, at least to Eddie. He loves this - the way baking always permeates his home with aromas of cinnamon and sugar and spice, making everything seem somehow cosier. A home that's lived in and loved. Something about baking makes him feel loved, even when he's doing it alone, nothing like a warm pastry straight from the oven; like the comforting hug from a parent, he imagines, though his mother's were always too smothering.

The conversation turns to other things from there - Richie's day, Eddie's apparently questionable taste in comedy, the stand up show that's coming up -, talking as though they have known one another for years whilst the cookies bake away contentedly behind them.

It's always like this with Richie.

Easy to see why he has so many friends (much more than Eddie has, anyway).

Time passes in the blink of an eye, much too quick.

The cookies are set atop the counter to cool as much as they can before Eddie is packing some away into a container for Richie to take with him.

"What's the verdict?" Richie says, hovering behind Eddie. "Do they reach your expectations?"

"Hm," Eddie takes his time. Lets Richie stew like he so clearly is. "Not bad for a first attempt, Tozier."

He feels a breath against his neck, like a sigh of relief that doesn't make sense to him. It makes him shiver. Too noticeable, he thinks, embarrassed, pressing closer against the hard line of the counter.

"Don't eat them all in one go," he warns, passing the filled container to Richie, turning to find him close.

Richie performs a mock salute. "Scouts honor."

"Do Scouts even _salute_?" Eddie muses aloud.

"Yeah, sure they do." Richie is flippant, waving the container around. The cookies, which Eddie has placed so carefully, spill from their towers.

Quiet again, as Richie fiddles with the container, looking towards the door almost furtively.

It's - tense. Makes Eddie want to rush forward and away, two opposing decisions with entirely different outcomes. It's a different tense to earlier; still feeling now wound tight in his chest, a hint of fear that is married with something else. Excitement, maybe, though he cannot pinpoint why.

"I should head out."

Eddie nods, rapidly. He says, "Yeah, yeah, of course. Thanks for coming."

He thinks, ‘ _no, please, I don’t want you to go_ ’.

"I had a great night," Richie says.

Eddie snorts, quick to shake his head this time. "No, you didn't."

"I did!" Always so damn earnest. "Mostly. Little hairy there in the middle, but we can blame your mom for that."

Yeah, Eddie thinks, that sounds about right.

“Are you calling my mom hairy?”

“Well, you see, Edward,” Richie adopts a pompous tone, highly accented and incredibly overstated. “That information is strictly confidential. It’s between your mother and I."

Somehow, Eddie manages to scowl and laugh at the same time, his hand flat as he cops Richie across his bicep. The contact evidences an arm more muscular than he had imagined. He swallows, hard.

"We can probably bake without the trauma next time."

"Oh, I don't know," hands in his pocket, Richie tilts on his feet, smiling with a rueful edge to it. "Baking and Trauma Thursdays. Has a certain ring to it."

"Absolutely fucking not," Eddie narrows his eyes. "Are you going to be spilling your trauma too?"

"One day, probably."

God, it's so stupid, but it sounds like a promise - the two of them vowing to unleash their deepest, darkest secrets on one another, something usually kept between friends who have been in each other's lives for years.

Eddie has never released information like this to someone so quickly and so willingly. With Bev and Bill, even, he thinks it was a fight. Like getting blood from a stone, both of them coaxing and patient.

Maybe all that was good preparation for this.

Suddenly, there are arms around him - awkward and too loose at first, but tightening instantaneously upon contact, his face smushed half into Richie's chest as he's _hugged_. It takes a moment for his brain to wire itself up again, springing back to life just in time for him to raise his own arms, one curling up around Richie's shoulders, the other circling his waist.

Richie smells like chocolate and foliage and spearmint toothpaste. Sweat, too, underlying everything but remarkably pleasant. Weak enough that Eddie has to breathe in to truly be hit by it; not thinking about how _weird_ it is that he's _sniffing_ Richie until it's too late.

He lets himself be embraced, and he embraces Richie back. The sturdy softness of Richie's body melds easily to Eddie's sharper edges and rigid limbs, until he sinks against him, easing his muscles to relax and settle.

Everything is Richie, in this moment. The scent, the taste, the sounds, the feeling - all of it filed away in Eddie's head under Richie's name, ready to be brought out again on a rainy day. He presses his body closer, feet pressed together, Richie's head buried in his hair. From here, he can feel the heat of his body; can feel the way his throat convulses when he swallows.

Squeezing his eyes tightly, he commits it to memory.

Moments might pass, he thinks, before they finally break apart. Both sheepish, with redness tinting the pale of their cheeks, the bridges of their nose. This close, Eddie can count Richie's eyelashes, can see the bite of his teeth, the dry skin scattered across his lips.

As though electrified, he jumps back.

"I'll see you soon," Richie says. A little too rushed, eyes darting everywhere but at Eddie, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Yeah. See you soon," Eddie echos. "Thanks, again."

He feels shockingly cold without Richie’s body pressed against him, without his arm around his shoulders. Shivering, he folds his own arms, hands grasping at his biceps.

"I came for the cookies." Richie jokes. He laughs too harshly for it to be genuine, waves a hand but aborts the movement before it can be fully realised.

"Right," he says, and then, "Bye, then. Sweet dreams, Eduardo. Me? I’ll be dreaming about your hairy mom." It comes out in a rush, too forced, and then he’s farting away. 

Before Eddie can really understand what is happening, Richie is at the door, coat removed from the hook, the sound of the latch catching the only proof that someone else was just here at all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> as always, i'm over on twitter at [@decdlights](https://twitter.com/decdlights), and the account for marigold avenue is tagged in the beginning notes!


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